


Two Broke Revolutionaries

by emolee96



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Actually not kinda, Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Combeferre is their manager and has had enough of their antics, And Enjolras went to Wharton, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grantaire makes cupcakes, It is a Two Broke Girls AU, Kind of a Two Broke Girls AU?, M/M, Multi, Other, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:30:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emolee96/pseuds/emolee96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Les Amis work in a crappy diner in Williamsburg, Gratnaire makes delicious cupcakes, and Enjolras is convinced that they could take the world (or at least New York) by storm. They just need money. And some way to get noticed. And if they fall a little bit in love along the way, well, they aren't complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Broke Revolutionaries

Grantaire had a running list of places he never wanted to be again. Number one was high school. Number two was the Cafe Musain. Luckily for him, he never had to go back to high school again, having made it out by the skin of his teeth just over three years before. But as he walked into the Cafe Musain past the third waitress Combeferre had fired in as many weeks, he once again came to terms with the fact that luck wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to people like him. Luck was for rich people who had the time and the means to sit around waiting for things to happen to them, and the stupidity to call it luck when it did. Like the guy standing by the counter talking animatedly to Combeferre. He was probably the type to believe in luck.

Really, if Grantaire considered all the options, this guy was probably the type to complain about the diner’s questionable salmon and then storm out without leaving a tip. (Because really, the Musain was a diner, not matter how much Combeferre tried to pretend otherwise. And the stranger had every right to complain about the quality of the diner’s salmon. It wasn’t even salmon. It was pork. Everyone always thought it tasted like chicken, though. The quality people expected out of the diner’s food never ceased to amaze Grantaire.)

If luck were the kind of thing that was on Grantaire’s side, the beautiful stranger would end up sitting in Grantaire section (His section, of course, being the whole diner, given Combeferre’s earlier dismissal of Grantaire’s only co-worker who wasn’t Bahorel or Courfeyrac). But we’ve already established that luck doesn’t happen to Grantaire, so the guy was probably going to complain and then leave and Grantaire would never see him again.

Grantaire hummed quietly as he arranged the cupcakes he’d made the night before in the pastry case. He put the day-old ones in a bag to save for Eponine, figuring he’d give them to her when he walked her home from work that night.

“Hey, R,” Bahorel whisper-yelled from his seat at the register, “Don’t look now, but Combeferre already found you someone else.”

“Who?” Grantaire looked around, confused.

“The guy ‘Ferre’s been talking to for the last hour. He was hired after the first five minutes, but now he just won’t shut up.”

“Yeah, right,” Grantaire scoffed, “I’ll believe that when I see him in the uniform.”

“Here’s your uniform,” Combeferre told the stranger loudly, as if one cue. Grantaire swore he did in on purpose. (He totally had. THis is COmbeferre we’re talking about, after all.) “Go talk to Grantaire when you’re done, he’ll be the one training you.”

Grantaire sighed and rolled his eyes, trying his best to act casual until the stranger was out of sight. “Oh my God, Combeferre, why? Do you want to torture me?” he whined once he was sure the blond couldn’t hear him.

Combeferre sighed patiently and shook his head. “Because he seems competent and like he could actually stick around for more than a few weeks. You’d better not scare him off.”

“Me? Scary? Wherever did you get that idea?” Grantaire asked, offended.

“Dude, you literally sent a customer out of here crying last night,” Bahorel pointed out.

“He snapped his fingers at me, he totally deserved it,” Grantaire defended himself.

  
“Just be nice to Enjolras, please,” Combeferre said.

“Grantaire nodded and went back to rearranging hsi cupcakes because he didn’t feel like doing any real work, and if he and Bahorel sampled one or two (or five) he wasn’t going to say anything. “Wait a second. What’s this guy’s name?” Grantaire asked Combeferre.

“Enjolras, I think he said. Why?”

Grantaire shrugged. “He looks really familiar, and I swear I’ve heard his name before.”

“Yeah, I thought that too,” Bahorel agreed.

“You have seen him before,” Courfeyrac told them, sticking his head out of the kitchen window. “On the news. It’s the only thing they’ve been talking about all week. The whole stock market thing?”

“Oh. That” Grantaire said.

“Yes, that,” Enjolras sighed, walking back out into the diner. “But I’ll have you know that was all my father. I haven’t spoken to my family in three years, so I had no idea. I turned him in as soon as I found out.”

“Yeah, whatever, dude, not a big deal,” Grantaire told him, “We’ve all got our issues. You’ll need a nickname, though. Probably better if people don’t know exactly who you are, and your name is really hard to say.”

“I’d be inclined to agree,” Enjolras laughed. “You should’ve seen the cashier’s face when she carded me for my cigarettes this morning. My name is like a curse now.”

“Let me think,” Grantaire said. He bit his lip thoughtfully. (He was well aware that this made him look extremely attractive, at least according to Eponine, and she was always right.)

“You’re pathetic, Bahorel muttered, rolling his eyes at Grantaire, who would have been offended, but was not inclined to disagree in this case.

“Enj,,” Grantaire said after a moment. “That’s what we’ll call you. Although you do rather resemble Apollo.”

“Flirt,” Courfeyrac muttered, shaking his head and retreating back into the kitchen. (That was rich,coming from him, considering he’d seduced one of the customers into leaving Grantaire a hundred dollar tip last time he’d needed more baking supplies.)

“I’ll take Enj, thanks,” Enjolras said. His face was as red as the uniform shirt they were all forced to wear. (Except for Grantaire. He’d convinced COmbeferre to let him wear a black shirt, partly because he was the only diner employee who stayed around for more than a few weeks at a time and thought he deserved something to set him apart from the others, but mostly because he looked absolutely terrible in red. Enjolras, on the other hand, did not look terrible in red. Enjolras looked great in red. Red was totally his color.)

“Duly noted, Apollo,” Grantaire said. “Could you marry the ketchips for me? They’re on the counter. I’ll take care of the tables. Shouldn’t be too busy tonight anyway, It’s a Tuesday.”

“Yeah, sure,” Enjolras nodded.

“Cool, thanks,” Grantaire said, and tehn started waiting on tables. A few minutes later, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

**BAHOREL, 6:58:07 PM: you are totally pathetic.**

**ME to BAHOREL, 6:59:12 PM: you think i don’t know that?**

Grantaire spared Bahorel a scowl and a particularly rude hand gesture when he thought nobody was paying attention. (One of the customers was, of course, and Combeferre would lecture Grantaire later, but considering he would barely be able to hold back his laughter, Grantaire wouldn’t pay too much attention.) A few seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

**BAHOREL, 7:05:15 PM: go check on your boyfriend.**

Grantaire made a face at him.. “If only I were so lucky,” he muttered, quietly enough that Bahorel couldn’t hear him before he walked over to the counter to see how Enjolras was doing. THe blond had set up the bottle of ketchup in two lines, and was so busy concentrating on matching them up as equally as possible that he didn’t notice Grantaire standing behind him or Courfeyrac peeking out from the kitchen, trying and failing to smother his laughter.

Grantaire shook his head and tapped Enjolras on the shoulder. “Great job,” he said sarcastically, “I’d pronounce them husband and wife, but I don’t like forcing outdated societal perceptions of marriage and gender roles on condiments. Now divorce the ketchups.”

Enjolras’ face turned bright red and he began to separate the bottles.

“No, like this,” Grantaire said, taking one bottle and pouring it into another. “See? Easy.” he looked over at Enjolras, who seemed like he was about to cry. “Hey, relax, Courf didn’t know what that meant when he started either. You’re fine. Do you want a cupcake?”

Enjolras’ face brightened instantly. “That sounds delicious,” he said.

Grantaire waltzed over to the pastry case and pulled out the tray of cupcakes. “We have chocolate chocolate, chocolate salted caramel, vanilla chocolate, chocolate vanilla, and super white person,” he announced.

Enjolras laughed. “Super white person?”

“Vanilla cake with vanilla icing, made especially for teenage girls who come in with their Vampire Weekend and their Starbucks and healthy-conscious hipsters who think things with no artificial colors have fewer calories.”

“I’ll try the salted caramel then,” Enjolras said. Grantaire plucked a cupcake from the tray with a flourish and handed it to him. Enjolras took a huge bite and his eyes widened in shock. “This is delicious,” he said in between mouthfuls, “Who made this? I need to know because they need to be a part of my life forever. I would like to marry them so they have to choice but to make these for me for the rest of my life, with no way out except complicated legal proceedings.”

“Grantaire made them!” Bahorel crowed. “Grantaire made them and now you have to get married, it’s in the rules.”

Enjolras turned bright red. “Oh, just ignore them,” Grantaire said. “Anyway, you haven’t been here long enough. I need to know someone for at least eight hours before I agree to marry them.”

“Oh well that’s good, I guess,” Enjolras laughed.

“Hasn’t gone wrong for me yet,” Grantaire shrugged. “I should go do my real job though. You never know, Combeferre might turn sensible and fire me.”

Enjolras just smiled and went back to marrying the ketchups, now that he knew how to do it properly. He totally didn’t stare at Grantaire’s butt as he walked away. Not at all. not even one little bit. (Okay, maybe a little bit. Maybe a lotta bit, actually, but he wasn’t ashamed. It was a cute butt, and it totally wasn’t his fault Grantaire was wearing such tight pants. Not that Grantaire wearing tight pants gave Enjolras the right to stare, but it was a cute butt on a cute person and Enjolras was, contrary to popular belief, only human.)

Grantaire picked up a tip from one of the empty tables and ighed heavily. “Again?” he asked mournfully, holding up a fistful of Monopoly money, “IT’s not even a lot, it’s all fives and ones.”

“Yeah, but at least you’re that much closer to buying Park Place,” Bahorel told him.

“I know, but once you buy that you have to buy Boardwalk, and I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of commitment, you know?”

“Should I be confused?” Enjolras asked Courfeyrac.

OUr resident homeless guy always tips in Monopoly money, so we have a thing about who’s closest to affording boardwalk and Park Place. R’s in the lead now, since he deals with customers the most often, but ‘Ferre got himself into second when R was gone for a few weeks to help Eponine with some stuff.”

“I see,” Enjolras nodded, wondering who Eponine was. (Grantaire’s girlfriend? Sister? Cousin? He was hoping she was some kind of family member.) He looked around at the now mostly empty diner. “Is it always this dead in here?” he asked, leaning back against the counter.

“Not usually,” Courfeyrac shrugged, “But there’s nothing going on across the street tonight, and Tuesday’s usually one of our slowest nights to begin with, so nobody’s coming in here except the regulars.”

“And considering we have one regular and he tips in Monopoly money, that’s not saying much,” Grantaire added, walking up behind them. he handed Enjolras s tack of Monopoly ones and few five dollar bills, with a sticky note on top that had “Apollo’s Monopoly Fund” scrawled on it. “Here,” he said. “Your share of the tips. I’ve gotta run, though. I promised Ep I’d walk her home from work and I’m already almost late.”

“Montparnasse causing issues again?” Courfeyrac sighed.

“Isn’t he always?” Grantaire shrugged his coat on “I’ll see you all tomorrow then.”

“Bye!” Enjolras yelled, a second too late. Grantaire had already slammed the door of the diner behind him.

“You have somewhere to stay tonight?” Courfeyrac asked Enjolras after a minute.

“Yeah, I should be - someone will - I’ll be fine, thank you,” he stuttered. “There has to be someone my father hasn’t stolen from who will let me sleep on their couch,” he said under his breath, hoping that nobody could hear him.

They all did, of course. But they had been in similar situations themselves at one point or another, and they understood that help, however much it was actually needed, was not welcome if it wasn’t asked for. So they bid him goodnight, and he made his way back into Manhattan, hoping that someone would be kind enough to take him in, at least for the night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys liked it! I've been thinking about writing this forever, and I finally just kind of did it. Next chapter should be up soon, it's already written, I just need to type it and edit it and stuff. You can visit me on tumblr at wideeyedintheshadow.tumblr.com


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